


i have seen no other who compares with you

by MelikaElena



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Fluff, M/M, Modern AU, One Shot, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sadly not the other F word again, and flowers!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8413363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelikaElena/pseuds/MelikaElena
Summary: Monty goes to his friend and flower shop owner Miller for help in wooing his crush. Miller finds he minds more than he should.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I want to post this before my friend gets to my apartment, so this isn't as thoroughly edited/proofed as I would like, so my apologies for any errors! I'll come back to it, I swear.

Miller had just lifted the sandwich to his face when he heard the shop bell ring out front. With a growl, he dropped the sandwich unceremoniously back on its plate. Trying to clear the scowl off his face as he emerged from the back room, he felt he was (mostly) successful as he cleared his throat to address the customer. 

 

Then he saw who it was. 

 

Miller smiled. “Hey,” he said, “how’s it going?” 

 

Monty grinned back at him. “Probably better than you,” he said. “I interrupted your lunch, didn’t I?” 

 

Miller shrugged, a little sheepishly. “That obvious, huh?” 

 

“Good thing I wasn’t a regular customer,” Monty said, “I would’ve high-tailed it out of here at the sight of that scowl.” 

 

“You’re not a customer at all,” Miller rolled his eyes. “Come on, Green.” 

 

“Actually,” Monty said slowly. “Today, I am.” 

 

Miller blinked. 

 

He had met Monty Green a few years before when the latter opened up-- of all things-- a tattoo parlor next door to Miller’s family’s flower shop. He hated himself a little bit for it, but initially Miller had been worried by the type of clientele who usually frequented tattoo parlors, and how they would clash with his older, usually more conservative (read: narrow-minded) clients. And, yeah, a few of them complained, but a higher percentage was really cool with it, and even got some of their old tattoos touched up at Monty’s sleek, clean shop. 

 

The two gradually became-- well, maybe not  _ friends _ , but friendly enough, and especially over the last year have built up a nice rapport. Monty liked to drop in before he opened the shop when he knew it would be slow for Miller, and the running joke was that Miller would go into Monty’s parlor saying he was going to get a tattoo, but he never did: he was notoriously indecisive, and he hated needles. 

 

Miller had never been a true customer at Monty’s shop, and Monty had never really been a customer at Miller’s, so hearing him say he was actually going to buy something, and seem like he  _ meant  _ it, baffled Miller. 

 

Miller raised his eyebrows. “All right, then,” he said, picking up a pad of paper and a pen. “What’s it for? Parents’ anniversary? Mother’s birthday?  _ Grandmother _ ’s birthday? Are these 'I’m Sorry' flowers? Did you do something to Jasper? Or Clarke? It’s probably good that you’re giving them flowers rather than apologizing. Talking is overrated, anyway.” 

 

“Actually,” Monty blurted. “They’re-- um, for someone I like.” 

 

Miller stilled, his head bent over the paper. He cleared his throat. “Um. What?” 

 

He looked up, and Monty’s cheeks were flushed. “There’s someone I, um, realized I have feelings for,” he said. “I've had them for a while, but I figured I should do something about it, and I, um, don’t know how to tell them, and Clarke suggested flowers. Said that it was cute, and that, uhh, there’s actually really complex flower meanings?” 

 

“She’s right,” Miller said slowly. “But, um, will the recipient of the flowers know that?” 

 

Monty bit his lip. “I was thinking I could send like a key, or something,” he said. “I-- will you help me?” 

 

Something in Miller’s chest tightened, but he squashed the feeling ruthlessly. Monty was a friend, and friends helped each other out, and there was absolutely  _ no reason  _ to feel weird about this at all. “Of course,” he said with more certainty than he felt. 

 

Monty looked relieved. “Great!” He said. “Um, so how should we start?” 

 

Miller rolled his shoulders back a little as he took up the pen again, willing himself to slip into a professional mindset.  “Tell me about them.” 

 

Monty visibly startled. “What?” 

 

Miller frowned. It was a standard, innocuous question. Then, “Ohhh,” he said, smirking a little. “You don’t want me to know who it is. I see. I must know them, then---” 

 

Monty ran a hand through his hair jerkily, his face pale. “Do we-- is this really necessary?” He pleaded. 

 

Miller relented, feeling guilty. “Okay, no, it’s not necessary,” he said. “But I do need to know a little bit about them to make the bouquet. Or rather-- let’s try something else,” he said soothingly, seeing Monty’s panicked face. “Tell me instead… tell me about your relationship with this person. How they make you feel. What you want them to know when they get the bouquet.” 

 

Monty relaxed a little bit, but not as much as Miller expected. 

 

“Hey,” Miller said softly. “We don’t-- you can come back another time if you want, and talk to someone else.” He had one other employee, his best friend Bellamy, that Monty could talk to. 

 

“No,” Monty said quickly. “No, I only want you.” 

 

Miller felt warm, briefly. “Okay, then,” he said. “I guess, then, tell me whatever you want to?” 

 

Monty cleared his throat. “No, um, I was just being stupid.” 

 

“It’s not stupid,” Miller said. “You’re just private about it.” 

 

“Yeah, but,” Monty said with a smile, “by giving them this bouquet I kinda wanna be  _ public  _ about it.” 

 

“True,” Miller said, smiling back, and they both relaxed. 

 

“I guess,” Monty said softly, “the way I feel around this person… any time I see them, I feel  _ better _ . Like, my worst day with them in it is still better than my best day without them. When I talk to them, when I see them smile-- God, if I’m the one to  _ make  _ them smile? I feel like I’m on top of the world. They make me happy, and all I wanna do is make  _ them _ happy.” 

 

Miller smiled, but something about the gesture rang false. “Now, we’re getting somewhere,” is all he said. 

 

* * *

 

Every couple days Monty would come into Miller’s flower shop and add to what was becoming, in Miller’s opinion, a Very Complicated Bouquet. 

 

Miller hadn’t ever really  _ wanted t _ o be a florist, and his mother, when she was alive, had never pressured him to take over her family’s business. When she died, however, and he had the choice to sell, he found himself deciding to keep it going, for as long as he was able. It wasn’t his first (or his second, or his third,) choice of profession, but he found that he knew a lot more than he thought-- he had, after all, spent a good portion of his childhood here, and had owned the shop for a couple years. 

 

All that said, he was torn between annoyance and amusement at Monty’s attempts at research and subsequent suggestion for what he wanted in his bouquet. 

 

“I want gardenias,” he said that day, bounding up to the counter where Miller was filling out an order for a couple’s tenth anniversary (a dozen red roses, how unoriginal.) 

 

Miller looked up, an eyebrow raised. “What?” 

 

“Gardenias. They mean, um, ‘you are lovely.’ Secret admirers tend to use them.” Monty wilted a little. “Do you not like gardenias?” 

 

Miller shrugged. “Gardenias are great,” he said. “But do you really think they’ll go with the coral-colored ranuculus flowers you requested on Monday?” (“They mean, ‘I am dazzled by your charms!’” Monty had crowed. “It’s perfect, since he’s so charming!” Miller had scowled a little bit at that without really understanding why. Monty  _ would  _ fall for someone charming, and why wouldn’t he? He was charming himself.) 

 

Monty frowned. “Gardenias are white,” he said. “White flowers are neutral. Don’t they go with everything?” 

 

“Oh, the ranuculus will go with the gardenias,” Miller said, trying to hold back a smirk. “But will it go with the daffodils you requested last week?” (“They mean ‘regard,’” Monty had said. “And they’re just so cheerful, don’t you think?”) 

 

Monty fell silent, frowning. “They probably don’t go with the edelweiss, either, huh?” 

 

“Edelweiss doesn’t belong anywhere outside of  _ The Sound of Music, _ ” Miller said dryly. “And no, Monty, I don’t care that it means ‘devotion.’” 

 

Monty sighed, but then he perked up again. “What about hyacinth?” he said. “It means ‘constancy of love.’” 

 

“It also means ‘fertility,’” Miller said flatly. 

 

Monty grinned. “Does it also, maybe, mean ‘ _ vir _ ility?”’ 

 

Miller rolled his eyes, but he was grinning, too. “Not a chance,” he said. 

 

As the days went on, Miller unwillingly because more and more curious as to who the recipient of Monty’s bouquet was. He was already keeping a tally-- both physical and in his head-- of the types of flowers and their attributes that Monty kept suggesting:  _ sweet, beautiful, strong, charming courageous. _ It was evident how highly Monty thought of this person, how much he absolutely  _ adored  _ them. 

 

That day, Monty had come in, but didn’t say anything, just leaned against the counter. Miller raised his eyebrows, but remained silent. He knew he could wait him out. 

 

Sure enough, Monty broke first. “Hey, Nate,” he said. 

 

“Hey, Monty,” Miller returned. 

 

“What’s  _ your _ favorite flower?” 

 

Miller paused, hesitated. “Hold on,” he said eventually. 

 

Monty straightened, alarmed. “Nate?” He asked, but Miller had already disappeared into the back of the shop, which was something of a greenhouse area as well. 

 

“I’ll be right back, Green!” 

 

He emerged a couple minutes later holding one small flower by its short stem. Monty peered at it; it was small, and pretty, with five white petals and a burst of yellow at its center. 

 

Monty nearly held his breath; he knew, somehow, that he was being shown something special. “What is it?” 

 

Miller smiled, small and real. “It’s called a plumeria.”

 

“Plumeria,” Monty breathed. “It’s  _ beautiful _ .” He looked at Miller with bright, dark eyes. “What does it mean?” 

 

Miller huffed a laugh. “You and your meanings,” he said, twirling the short stem between his fingers. He focused on it as he spoke. “Like most flowers, it has different meanings in different cultures. In Western cultures it means beauty, charm, grace… To the Hindus, it mean dedication and devotion; to the Buddhists, immortality. The Mayans believed it had to do with life and birth, new beginnings and new life. The Chinese considered plumeria to be more special than orchids, and as a symbol of love. And in Hawaiian culture,” he said softly, reaching over and tucking the flower behind Monty’s left ear, the other man watching him with wide eyes, “plumerias symbolize the relationship status of those who wear them: a flower over the right ear means you’re available, and over the left means you’re taken.” 

 

Monty reached up and touched the plumeria with tentative fingertips. “You put it over my left ear,” he murmured. “But… I’m not taken.” 

 

Miller’s lips quirked up as he looked at Monty intently. “Aren’t you?” 

 

* * *

 

It was another week before the bouquet was decided upon and  _ finally _ created: a handful each of ranuculus and gardenia; clusters of daffodils and jasmine; bursts of violets, sunflowers, and red tulips; and right in the center, at Monty’s request, “a touch from the person who helped create it,” was a single plumeria. 

 

It was disjointed and ridiculous, and at first glance, so, so ugly,  but it was also colorful and wild and so  _ Monty _ . 

 

Miller loved it. 

 

“So, you’re really doing this, huh?” Bellamy said, leaning against the counter as Miller was fussing over the bouquet. 

 

“Doing what?” Miller grunted. 

 

“Really helping the guy you love win someone else over,” Bellamy said. “Helping him pick out the flowers, making the bouquet, delivering it to another person…’ 

 

“Newsflash,” Miller said, breaking away from the flowers suddenly. He grabbed his coat off the hook. “I already  _ did _ help him pick out the flowers and I  _ did  _ make the bouquet.” 

 

“Where are you going?” Bellamy frowned as Miller stomped towards the door. 

 

“I’m taking the day off,” Miller snarled. “And  _ you’re  _ delivering the flowers.” 

 

Bellamy shook his head, as he picked up the card that Monty had written and sealed, the day before. He tucked it into the bouquet and looked around, searching both on the counter and in the computer system for the address to where the bouquet was going. 

 

Frustrated, Bellamy picked up the phone. “Hey, Monty?” He said. “It’s Bellamy; I’m delivering your bouquet. Yeah, I don’t know where it’s going; I don’t know if Miller ever-- oh, you never told him?” Bellamy frowned. “Well, are you going to tell me?” 

 

Monty told him.

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Miller took the day off. He went back to his apartment, grabbed his headphones and his duffle, and took off for the gym, but even going through the horror that was Leg Day still didn’t take the edge off, so he ran for an hour on the treadmill. He knew he would be paying for that for the next couple days, but he didn’t care. He was so fucking furious, and the worst part was, he didn’t even know  _ who _ he was mad at-- Monty, Monty’s crush, or himself. 

 

The thing was, Monty shouldn’t have had to create that ungodly, humongous bouquet to get someone to like him; Monty was enough for anyone; hell, Monty was  _ more _ than enough. Monty was the embodiment of those flowers, bright and lovely, able to make any day happier just by being there. Miller would know; any day he saw Monty was better because he was in it. 

 

Miller felt like his heart stopped; his feet nearly tripping over themselves as he pushed furiously at the treadmill buttons, slowing until he was walking. Shit, shit, shit. How could he have let this happen? How could he have fallen in love with Monty, all the while knowing Monty was hopelessly in love with someone else? 

 

This was a complete dumbass move, like, something on Bellamy’s level, that’s how fucking stupid and sentimental it was (and even Bellamy’s love life was going along better than his-- he was slowly and steadily and  _ successfully _ charming Monty’s head tattoo artist, of all things.) No, Miller knew who he was furious at, and it was himself. He had realized too late what his feelings for Monty were; there was nothing he could do. 

 

His rage abated slightly, but only after a hot shower and treating himself for his favorite Thai place for dinner. On his way home, he passed the shop, long closed for the evening, but as he glanced at it, something caught his eye. Was it--? 

 

He fumbled for his keys as he wrenched open the door and saw them: there, on the counter, were the flowers. 

 

It happened, sometimes, though not often-- people would send flowers to other people, who would reject them; granted, usually the flowers that were rejected were from recipients who were wronged by the sender, but occasionally ‘secret admirer’ flowers came back as well. Depending on how personalized the bouquets were, they could usually be re-sold, but Monty’s bouquet was truly one-of-a-kind; Bellamy probably didn’t know what to do with them. 

 

The fury that had eased over the past few hours returned with a vengeance, Miller was absolutely livid. How dare this person reject Monty’s affections? They weren’t going to do better than Monty; that much was obvious. Miller looked at Bellamy’s delivery log, but he had probably foreseen Miller’s overreaction and hadn’t entered in where Monty’s flowers were supposed to go. No matter; Monty’s shop was still open, he would ask the man himself. 

 

Swiping the flower’s off the counter before he could talk himself out of it, Miller locked up the shop and stalked over to Monty’s shop. Entering, he was relieved to see that it was, for once, empty, and only Monty was behind the counter. Monty looked up, brightening at the sight of him, but tensed as he saw Miller with the flowers, almost nervous. “Hey,” he started, “I see you--” 

 

“Who,” Miller snarled, “was supposed to get these flowers?” 

 

Monty’s mouth dropped open. “What--?” 

 

“What fucking asshole--” Miller took a deep breath. “Bellamy was supposed to deliver these to someone today, but when I came back they were still there. That usually means that they didn’t accept them. Now tell me who it is, so I can go kick their ass.” 

 

Monty frowned. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Bellamy told me that they weren’t home when he went to go deliver them?” 

 

Miller blinked. Oh. Okay, that happened, too, and-- Miller wiped a hand over his face. “I’m an idiot,” he groaned. “Oh, my  _ god _ . I don’t know why I assumed…” And now he probably worried Monty for no reason. “Monty,” he said, taking his hand away and miserably facing his friend. “I’m so sorry. Of  _ course  _ they’re going to accept the flowers. It’s been a day. I’m sorry.” 

 

Monty watched him warily, probably waiting to see if he was going to take one of the needles and stab himself through the eye with it, Oedipus style. “Bellamy said that you… unexpectedly took the day off,” he said. “Are you okay?” 

 

Miller barked out a laugh. “Not really,” he said. “But that’s my fault. I’ll, um, deliver these myself tomorrow. I’m really sorry, again--” 

 

“Nate,” Monty interrupted. “You wanna know who I’m sending these to? Open the card and find out.” 

 

Miller blinked. “What? No. Monty, that’s-- whatever you wrote, it’s personal.” 

 

Monty shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Just-- just read it, okay?” 

 

Miller willed his hands not to shake as he placed the vase on the counter and took out the little white card. He gave Monty another probing look through his actions-- are you sure?-- and Monty nodded resolutely back, though he looked more grave and nervous than ever. 

 

Monty’s handwriting was small and cramped and took up every centimeter of the small card: 

 

_ Nate, _

 

_ I wanted to put something super romantic in here, like a poem about flowers or something, and I even looked some up, but I didn’t understand any of them; so I thought maybe instead of hiding behind someone else’s words, and hiding behind this whole scheme, I should just be honest instead.  _

 

_ I like you. I’ve liked you for ages, now, probably basically since I moved in next to your flower shop, but I didn’t know if you liked guys, and once I figured out you did, I didn’t know if you even liked  _ me _.  I still don’t know if you like me the way I like you, but I know that we’re friends, and I hope that, even if this all goes horribly wrong and you don’t like me like how I like you, we can still be friends.  _

 

_ Okay, I lied. Well, not really, but I was trying to play it cool when I said that I liked you. I do like you, of course, but I’m going to cast off any self-preservation now. As the flowers will tell you, I absolutely  _ adore _ you. If I was a flower, you’d be like, the sun. I feel myself warm and bloom whenever I’m around you. You’re so amazing, Nate, and I don’t think you even realize it.  _

 

_ Anyway, I’ve run out of room, but if you could let me know what you think about all this, that would be great, thanks.  _

 

_ Monty  _

 

Miller stayed quiet after he finished reading the note, his mind at a standstill. All this time… the bouquet was for him? Monty was infatuated with him? He thought that Miller was strong and beautiful and sweet and all of these other things he wasn’t sure he deserved? 

 

He had been jealous  _ of himself  _ t his entire time?

 

Miller looked up to see that Monty had plucked the plumeria out of the bouquet and had extended it to him. “Maybe I should’ve just gone with one of these,” he said quietly. “Seems like you’d appreciate it much more than my Frankenstein of a bouquet.” 

 

Miller fought the urge to haul the bouquet back into his arms (or haul someone else…) “No,” he said. “I love it.” 

 

Monty’s eyes lit up with hope. “Yeah?” He said. 

 

“I love it,” Miller said firmly, and he reached toward the plumeria, but he didn’t take it, instead lacing his hand with Monty’s, the flower between them. “I… I love  _ you _ .” 

 

Monty gave a little laugh of disbelief as his other hand reached for Miller. “Yeah?” 

 

Miller smirked. “Can’t you say something else, baby?” 

 

Monty’s hand grabbed hold of Miller’s shirt, pulling him closer. “Talking is overrated,” he murmured, “isn’t that what you once said?” 

 

Monty didn’t give Miller a chance to respond, and Miller didn’t even want to, his hand coming up to card through Monty’s hair as they kissed. Miller did something with his tongue that had Monty moaning and nearly dropping the plumeria, so Miller deftly took it and put it behind Monty’s ear. 

 

Monty was grinning as they broke the kiss. “In case it wasn’t painfully obvious,” Monty said, nodding to the bouquet. “I love you, too.” 

  
“Yeah,” Miller said tenderly, giving him another kiss. “I know.” 


End file.
